


Quietus

by sofia_gigante (sof_gigante)



Series: Dark Knight, Bright Son [11]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Action Violence, Angst, Childhood Memories, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Established Relationship, Grieving, Killer Croc - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Injury, Martha Wayne - Freeform, My Parents Are Dead, Physical hurt/comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, Trust in the Process, horror imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28235985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sof_gigante/pseuds/sofia_gigante
Summary: “As much as you want to downplay your mortality, Bruce, biology doesn’t lie."After a particularly brutal encounter with Killer Croc, Bruce learns how to let Clark take care of him.
Relationships: Batman/Superman, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: Dark Knight, Bright Son [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/355751
Comments: 29
Kudos: 156





	Quietus

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in their second year together (shortly after [Control](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6762067) and two years before [Boy Wonder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11030286)), when Bruce and Clark are still learning their dynamics and boundaries.  
> 
> 
> Though it is helpful to be familiar with the previous episodes in this series, this story can definitely be enjoyed on its own. 
> 
> Big, big, thanks to my super star Beta reader of OVER FIVE YEARS: Castillon02.

Batman couldn’t breathe. 

Lungs burned, throat raw. Mouth filled with acrid water. White spots dotted his vision, stars twinkling in the brackish deep. 

Killer Croc drove him down, down to the bottom of the flooded sewer. He crushed Batman in a bear-hug, pinning his arms to his sides. Razor teeth snapped across the side of Batman’s mask, gnashing along his neck until they sank into the gaps around his shoulder plate. Sickly pain radiated through him, and he swore he could feel Croc’s teeth scraping against bone.

If he didn’t think quickly, he was going to drown. Not panic. Fact. He had only a few seconds. He kicked, and missed. His fingers scrabbled across his utility belt. One chance left—

“Brucie?”

_Her_ voice. He was hallucinating, had to be. Bad sign. 

“My baby.”

He wrenched his head aside to avoid another bite attack, and something soft collided with his chin. He turned to see.

_No._

His mind blanked. The terror he’d been holding back swept through him like a scarlet wave. It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t. It…

He cried out.

Water flooded his lungs.

**************

“DESTINATION REACHED. AUTOPILOT DISENGAGED. NOW ENTERING STANDBY.” 

The Batmobile’s robotic voice drew Bruce out of his daze. The top slid open, but he didn’t even try to get out. He simply focused on breathing, fighting through the pain radiating through his chest, his legs, his entire body. He was home. Safe. Alive. He’d come close to not having any of those things be true. Too close.

He was sure Killer Croc had broken several ribs with that bear-hug, and punctured his shoulder with his bite. Maybe something broken there, too. He was going to have to start antibiotics as soon as possible to ensure he didn’t get an infection. 

The idea of moving was just so damn daunting, though. His lungs were still grateful for every breath—even if they were tinged with sewer stench—and his muscles quivered with fatigue. Bruce tried pulling himself up out of the car, but his damaged shoulder screamed in protest. He slumped back down. 

It had taken everything Batman had to take down Croc and deliver him to the waiting GCPD units. He’d tracked the killer for two days straight—no sleep, no rest—following the trail of bodies across Gotham, and then under it. It had begun with the two unfortunate animal control officers in the Narrows, then the sanitation workers at the water treatment plant, and then the unfortunates who made the tunnels their home. Then…then there was her…

_“Brucie? Brucie, baby?”_

Her voice echoed in his mind again, and her face swam up from his fresh memories. Those pale eyes wide and begging, black hole of a mouth gaping, fingers reaching to him…

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to _will_ the image back down. He tasted bile in the back of his throat, his pulse throbbing in his aching temples.

Where was Alfred? Didn’t he know Bruce was here, that he needed, he— 

_Get up! You’re the goddamn Batman!_

Bruce gritted his teeth, sucked in his breath, and used every ounce of strength he had left to pull himself to standing. He heard himself cry out, and a black haze of agony swarmed in to claim in—

“Hey, hey, stop!” A strong pair of hands caught him as he fell. “I’ve got you, Bruce, don’t move.”

“Kal,” Bruce gasped. A warm rush of relief flooded through him, followed quickly by a wave of shame.

Clark had seen him post-patrol before, watched Alfred patch up bullet wounds and sprained muscles. There was something different about this, though, about Clark seeing him so utterly spent and wounded, that made Bruce’s gut churn.

“I don’t need your help,” Bruce said. He tried to fuel his forced menace with his pain—a trick he did often to keep himself in the fight—but even to his ears it sounded fake. Pathetic.

“I know you don’t. Just let me make myself useful, will you?” Clark said. He was trying to keep his voice even, but Bruce could detect the tremor under his placating tone. Clark put his hands under Bruce’s arms, tried to carry him out of the car.

_Like a small, hurt child. She’d scoop me up, pull me close, let me touch the pearls at her neck while Father patched me up…_

“I can walk!” Bruce snapped. He used Clark as balance to swing his legs out of the Batmobile, biting down against his grunts of pain. He forced himself to carry his own weight on his feet, taking one step, two steps, three steps. It took forever, but he stumbled his way towards the waiting medical table with Clark supporting him.

_You’re being weak. In front of Superman. In front of Kal._

“What the hell are you doing here, anyway?” Bruce growled. “I thought you were working on a tight deadline for the _Planet_ tonight.”

“Really? You think that I could focus on the Metropolis mayoral race when I could hear you fighting for your life 200 miles away?” The naked honesty scraped at something raw inside of Bruce, and it made the pain in his chest so much worse. “Perry can deal with a missed deadline.”

“This is not worth risking your job over,” Bruce said. It sounded dumb as soon as he said it. Of course Clark would want to be here. Solid, dependable, loyal Clark. Way-too-good-for-Bruce Clark. “Seriously. I was in complete control of the situation.” 

“Like when that monster almost drowned you to death? God, I came this close to breaking my promise not to interfere with your work when I heard you scream underwater.”

_“Brucie…”_

Bruce shuddered, felt his face flush. No. Clark couldn’t hear thoughts. Hallucinations. Fears. Memories.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Bruce tried to hide his wince as Clark helped ease him down onto the medical gurney. 

“No thanks to your stubbornness,” Alfred said, approaching with his hands swathed in purple latex gloves. Ready to get to work, then. “I warned you about the storm run-off, how it would affect the flow into the sewers and give Killer Croc an advantage.”

“I didn’t have a choice. I finally had eyes on him, I couldn’t let him get away.” Bruce raised his hands to remove his mask, sending pain spiking up through his shoulder and down his chest. He couldn’t hide his gasp.

“I got it,” Clark murmured, reaching for the mask.

“Don’t! It’s rigged to—”

“I know. Alfred, help me roll him onto his side.” Bruce let them move him onto his undamaged shoulder. Moments later, he felt warmth at the nape of his neck. Superman was using his heat vision to melt the security trap. 

_Heat vision would’ve come in useful in the sewers, wouldn’t it? Too bad you’re just_ human.

Alfred removed Bruce’s armor, then used special medical scissors to cut off the under-suit. He was quick and careful, testament to his years in combat medicine. “Mr. Kent, if you could help with removing the garments. Carefully.” 

Clark, his face pale, didn't even try to make a joke about undressing Bruce. Instead his lips tightened into a grim line as he took in the damage. “Ribs six and seven on the right side have hairline fractures on the anterior. Rib number 5 posterior is dislocated. No bones broken or dislocation in the shoulder, though there’s puncture damage to the tissue.”

Superman, the human X-ray machine. Is there anything he couldn’t do?

_He sure as hell wouldn’t have gotten almost drowned._

Bruce closed his eyes, drifting as Alfred and Clark worked above him. It became even easier after Alfred dosed him up with a painkiller along with the antibiotics—the one concession to weakness Bruce didn’t protest. It made it easier for them to work if Bruce’s muscles weren’t spasming in pain. 

“That’s as much as I can do before he’s bathed,” Alfred said, what felt like hours later. It took a moment for Bruce to realize that Alfred was addressing Clark, and not him. “Don’t submerge his shoulder, but be sure to clean the wound, along with the others.”

_They’re talking like I’m not even here._

“I can take care of it myself,” Bruce said. He tried—carefully—to sit up, but Clark already had a hand planted on the center of his chest. He wasn’t applying pressure, but he didn’t have to. He might as well have placed a mountain on Bruce. 

“I can bandage him and put him in the sling myself,” Clark said, sliding his other arm under Bruce’s legs. “Would you mind bringing the supplies up to his room?”

“Of course, Mr. Kent,” Alfred said. “I’ll have everything prepared.”

“Don’t you da—” Bruce didn’t even finish before Clark had lifted him up. Clark cradled him against his chest as he flew up out of the Batcave and through the door that led to the manor. 

He didn’t know what was stranger, being flown through his own house, or having Clark do it while in plain clothes. On the two—count them, two—occasions that Bruce had allowed Clark to fly him somewhere, they’d been in their “work uniforms.” This was surreal, the comfortable softness of Clark’s flannel shirt against his cheek while experiencing the weightlessness of flight. It just drove home how…how wrong this situation was. Clark shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t see him like this. 

_He’s a living god, and you’re nothing but a broken man._

As Clark guided them into the master bedroom, the dark thoughts kept swirling in Bruce’s head. They were magnified by the constant throb in his temples, the sickening soreness in his ribs. The painkillers helped take the edge off, but he still felt beaten and utterly depleted, and now disoriented by the impromptu flight. He was almost nauseous, in fact, and he looked up to Clark with a scowl as he was placed in the large tub in the en suite bathroom.

“Don’t do that again.”

Clark fixed him with an exasperated stare, his eyebrows arching incredulously. “You’re unbelievable, Bruce. There was no way you were getting up all those stairs.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“Yes, yes, with a broken leg and while poisoned and fighting off a group of ninjas. I get it, tough guy.” Clark didn’t sound playful. He sounded genuinely annoyed. Well…good. 

Bruce didn’t dignify Clark’s snark with a reply, or acknowledge Clark undressing him the rest of the way. As Clark started the tap and rummaged in the cabinet for bathing supplies, Bruce’s gaze lingered on the stream of water. It pooled around the open drain before disappearing down into the black hole, into the sewers...

_The black hole of her mouth. Bubbles still escaping from her slack, cracked lips, frozen in an endless scream underwater…_

Gentle fingers touched his check, and he jumped, his arm instinctively going to brush the caress away. His injury screamed to life.

“Goddamn it!” Bruce hissed, wincing as he dropped his arm on the side of the tub.

“Bruce—”

“Will you stop babying me?” He was mortified, lashing out. He felt it in the pit of his stomach, the beat of his heart. He wished he wouldn’t, but he just couldn’t help himself. He was just…frustrated and weak and so very tired, so very _human_. 

“No, I won’t stop _helping you_.” Clark’s tone was surprisingly sharp, enough to startle Bruce into silence. “I get it. You’re embarrassed. For some reason, you don’t want to—or just can’t—admit that you almost died tonight.”

Clark used a scoop to pour warm water over Bruce’s head. God, it felt good. It trailed down Bruce’s face and neck, coursed down his torso to join the water flowing down the drain. It was followed by a second scoop, rinsing away more of the sewer filth coating him. 

Clark continued. “As much as you want to downplay your mortality, Bruce, biology doesn’t lie. I…I heard your heartbeat faltering tonight. Water filling your lungs….” Clark’s voice softened with each word, his anger melting into apprehension. “I could’ve lost you tonight, and you’re acting like it’s not a big deal. So, even if you don’t think you deserve it for some god-knows-why reason, I sure as hell am going to pamper the fuck out of you tonight.”

Bruce didn’t know what to say. Even if he did, he couldn’t speak around the lump in his throat. He tried to convince himself that it was simply the rawness from his near-drowning, but it was impossible to lie to himself with Clark shining that damn, sun-bright light of his into the dark corners of his soul. 

So, he simply sat, still as he could, and let Clark scrub him down with a sea-sponge. The citrusy scent of the body wash helped calm his queasy stomach, and before he knew it, his eyelids were drifting closed. 

**************

He didn’t dream. He remembered. Relived.

Drip, drip, drip. All Batman could hear was the groan of old pipes, the burble of slow sewage, the rasp of his own labored breathing as he tried to make his way to the tunnel entrance. Croc had been underwater for too long. Batman wanted to believe that the Batarang to the head had stunned Croc as he’d gone under, but with his mask’s heat sensor damaged, he had no way to trace him. Just listening, watching, waiting. 

He struggled to breathe through the pain in his chest, and to keep it quiet. He was almost to the ledge. If he could just keep his footing on these slippery cobblestones, which was harder the more his head spun—

“Peek a Boo!”

Croc’s massive body reared out of the water like a tidal wave, slamming down onto Batman’s. He barely had time to throw an elbow before losing his balance, landing hard on his face on the slimy ground. He tasted blood in the seconds before his mouth filled with acrid sewer water, his vision going grey. Croc dragged him deeper under the water, and Bruce struggled, trying to kick at Croc’s knees. 

He felt like he was being crushed by a boulder, his chest screaming as Croc tightened his grip. Batman’s lungs burned as they begged for oxygen. His fingers scrabbled over his utility belt to find the button that would send an electric current over his armor, make Croc loosen his grip—

Soft tendrils brushed across Batman’s cheek, waving in the water. At first, he thought it was stray sea grass but when he turned his head he was greeted by a pale, bloated face. Not just any face, though. Her face, contorted in terror. The lips that used to kiss him were forever split in a silent scream; her kind eyes shone wide and lifeless. They rolled up to him, and her agonized mouth moved to form words.

_“Brucie, my baby boy, come home to me…”_

**************

“No!”

Bruce startled awake, choking and gasping. His thrashing sent hot spikes lancing through his nerves, water splattering everywhere. For a second, he was sure he was still there, trapped under the stinking water, her bloated face welcoming him to oblivion—

“Bruce, stop! You’re safe! You’re home!”

Clark’s voice broke through his nightmare, his strong hands holding down Bruce’s good shoulder and his hurt arm. Bruce’s relief was still tinged with fear, which only magnified when he realized he was still pinned down.

“Let me go.” Bruce meant it to be a command. Instead, it came out a plea.

Clark’s hands immediately loosened. “It’s OK. You’re OK. I’m here. Nothing’s going to hurt you.” 

Bruce couldn’t bear to look at Clark. His heart was still pounding like a war drum, adrenaline surging through his system. He felt sick to his stomach, and he swallowed hard, fighting the urge. It didn’t help, though, his gut continued to churn, and he realized with a dull panic that he was going to—

He managed to move quickly enough to throw up outside of the tub, not in it. Bruce’s body convulsed, expelling the meager contents of his stomach. It made his broken ribs scream in agony, the pain making his head swim anew, and he collapsed back into the tub with a pitiful moan. 

“Oh, Bruce. It’s OK. Let me get some towels.” 

Bruce’s face burned, but he was too weak to even protest. He closed his eyes against the sight of Clark cleaning up _his_ mess. How was he ever going to live this down? 

_He must be completely disgusted by me._

A few minutes later, a sharp, medicinal smell pulled Bruce out of his dark thoughts. He opened his eyes to find Clark holding out a Waterford crystal tumbler with an inch of green fluid inside.

“Here. I’m sure you want to rinse out the taste.”

Bruce’s shame bloomed hotter even as he took the glass with his good arm and took a slug. As he sloshed the fluid around, he winced as it stung the cuts in his mouth. Bruce spat the mouthwash back into the glass and handed it back to Clark. 

“Now, let’s get you out of that tub. I think you’ve had enough water for one day.”

Bruce was too defeated to protest anymore. He silently cooperated as Clark pulled him out and dried him off. It was strange. They’d bathed together plenty of times, but Bruce was always able to care for his own needs. This level of intimate care was so unfamiliar it was uncomfortable, and he withdrew further into himself to escape the indignity.

Clark let Bruce walk himself to the bed, at least, supporting him. Alfred had already laid out Bruce’s bedclothes, as well as a tray full of first aid supplies, dressings, medications, and a glass of water. 

_A sick room for a fragile man._

Clark set to work bandaging Bruce’s wounds, starting first with the big ones on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce winced every time the antiseptic touched the broken skin, but Clark’s touch was incredibly gentle. It was so different from Alfred’s efficient—though careful—method. It reminded him of how Clark would trace his fingers over his scars when he thought Bruce was sleeping, or when his mother used to stroke his head when he was ill.

_“Brucie, my baby boy, come home to me…”_

Heat pricked at the corners of Bruce’s eyes, and he squeezed them shut. He didn’t know what was worse in this moment: his distorted nightmare vision of his mother’s face, or the memory of her warmth and care. 

“My dearest,” Clark breathed. Bruce felt his hand palm his cheek, and his touch was as tender as his words. It was only when Clark’s thumb spread moisture across Bruce’s skin that he realized that he’d failed to hold in his tears.

“She looked just like her.” The words came slowly, like sluggish bubbles in murky water. 

“Who?” Clark asked. 

“The doctor he’d kidnapped. Her body.”

“I’m sorry.” Clark was silent for a long, respectful minute. “Who was it she looked like?” 

“My mother.” 

Clark didn’t say anything. He simply sat on the bed beside Bruce and carefully wrapped his arm around his shoulder, drawing him close. Bruce didn’t fight it. He laid his head on Clark’s shoulder, burying his face in his neck. He let Clark’s warmth surround him, cocoon him, shield him. He was too tired to fight anymore, the venom in his system purged with his stomach’s contents. All that was left was the weight of a lifetime of mourning.

“I can’t get her face out of my head,” Bruce whispered. “It was…uncanny. She spoke to me. Under the water. I…I was hallucinating. Near dead.”

Bruce’s words hung in the air, so heavy they were almost tangible. Finally, he admitted what had happened to him, how close he’d come to the end. Clark’s arm tightened around him, both possessive and comforting.

“What did she say to you?” Clark asked.

“She wanted me to join her. To come home.”

Bruce felt Clark’s muscles stiffen almost imperceptibly. “You know that’s not what your mother would want for you, Bruce.”

“I know. But…what if…what if it’s what I want? What I’ve wanted all along?”

The confession shocked Bruce as much as it must’ve Clark. He’d never voiced this, barely even acknowledged its existence. He’d hidden this self-destructive streak under the grief, the loneliness, the rage. He’d buried it as deep as he’d buried his parents, this secret desire to join them at last.

“I don’t think it’s death you want, Bruce,” Clark said, carefully. “If you wanted to die, you wouldn’t fight to stay alive so badly.”

Bruce was silent, mulling over Clark’s words. There was truth there. Even when things seemed the darkest, he kept going. He’d made it his life’s mission to protect the people of his city, be it from serial killers or Gotham’s corrupt government. He’d made a vow on his parents’ graves that he wouldn’t give up…even when he failed. 

“Even after everything I did, I…I couldn’t save any of those people. I didn’t get to them in time.”

_I couldn’t save my parents. I was just a child._

“There’s only so much you can do, Bruce,” Clark said slowly. “You’re only—”

“Human?” The word was acid on his tongue.

“One person,” Clark said calmly. “I know you think that I can just _fix_ everything with my powers, but even I can’t be everywhere at once. It’s hard to accept, especially when people suffer. I just have to remind myself that…I’m making a difference where I can. I can’t cheat death. Neither can you, Bruce, no matter how hard you try.” 

Bruce swallowed hard, looking down at his arm in its sling. Clark’s hand rubbed softly over Bruce’s arm, holding his close.

“You push yourself to your limits,” Clark continued. “Spread yourself as thin as new ice on a pond, and then push some more.”

“I have to. It doesn’t stop, so I can’t stop. Ever.”

“Yes, you can, Bruce. Sometimes…you just need to admit that you need rest. To let the people who love you carry some of your burden.”

Bruce balled his hands into fists, his damaged shoulder twinging. It was almost too much. Bruce was the one who took care of everyone and everything: the Wayne empire, Gotham City, Kal in their games. The only one who he let help him with anything was Alfred, and even that was a struggle. He didn’t _want_ to need help. He’d practically threatened Clark if he interfered with his city—with Batman—which was just another way of hiding his weaknesses from him. 

Bruce tried to take a deep breath, clear the knot in his chest, but the stab of pain from his damaged ribs only gave weight to Clark’s words. There was no denying it. He never would’ve made it out of the car, nonetheless up into his tub without Clark. He needed him right now, and the thought was terrifying.

“I wish,” Bruce whispered, so low he could barely hear himself, “that I knew how to let you help me.”

Clark sighed, the sound soft and warm as a summer breeze. “The first step is believing that you’re safe with me, Bruce,” he said quietly, “and that I am not going to judge you for needing help right now, or ever.”

Bruce was silent. Oh, he wanted to believe Clark! After everything they’d gone through, all the trials and missions and intimacies...why couldn’t Bruce just let go? He trusted Superman with his life. He trusted Clark with his secrets. He trusted Kal-El with his body and soul. Could he trust him with the burden of his fragility, too?

“You’ve seen me at my very worst, Bruce,” Clark said. “When I’m at my most vulnerable. Did you judge me when you were picking Kryptonite shrapnel out of me? Or carrying me out of a burning building down four flights of stairs?”

Bruce didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

“What did you think of me, then?”

“I thought…I thought that you were...amazingly strong. To have survived. I wanted to help you. To heal you.”

“That’s exactly how I feel right now, Bruce.” He stroked the side of Bruce’s arm, stopping when he reached the edge of the sling. “Your weakness is what makes you strong, Bruce. It’s what pushes you, forces you to adapt and grow. Without it, you become complacent, and when you’re complacent you’re compromised. You need to learn your weaknesses, become intimate with them, or your enemies will.”

Bruce swallowed hard around a sudden lump in his throat. His vision blurred, and this time he couldn’t fool himself that it was just his fatigue.

“You taught me that,” Clark continued. “You are the strongest man I know, Bruce Thomas Wayne, precisely because you admit your weaknesses and turn them into strength, into knowledge, into willpower.”

“And here I thought you hated those no-power training sessions I put you through,” Bruce muttered.

“I do. Because I need them.” Clark’s thumb skimmed across a tender spot on Bruce’s cheek. “Like right now, you need to let me take care of you.”

_There is strength in admitting weakness._

_You can be strong, Bruce. Just let go._

Bruce made himself look up at Clark. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. “OK.”

Clark smiled, bright and brilliant and soft. He kissed Bruce softly, barely a brush against his lips, but it was enough to melt the edges of Bruce’s barbs.

“So,” Bruce said, “what do I do?”

“You rest.” Clark scooted back on the bed until he reclined against the headboard, and he drew Bruce with him so he could lay back against him without going prone. He arranged himself and the pillows around Bruce to best support his injuries.

Bruce allowed himself to relax, to trust, to sink into Clark. He hadn’t felt anything like this since he was a child, this surety in safety. He rested his head against Clark’s strong shoulder, nestling his face against his throat. He breathed in, this time relishing the scent of laundry detergent and sun-warmed skin. Bruce’s lids began to get heavy, sleep cocooning around him…

The pale, bloated face floated out of the darkness, mocking him.

His eyes snapped open, heart pounding.

“Can I ask you for something, Clark?”

“Anything.”

“Tell me a story.”

_Take my mind somewhere else. Like she used to when I was small and afraid._

“A story, huh?” Clark was thoughtful. “A real one, or a made-up one?”

“One about you.”

Clark was quiet for a moment. “Have I ever told you about the time that I got sick in front of my third grade glass?” 

“I didn’t know you could get sick.” 

“I did when I was younger, before my powers fully developed. Until I was twelve I caught every cold and flu that came through the school. I even got chicken pox when I was seven.”

There was something about imagining Clark, miserable and covered in itchy red spots that made Bruce’s heart soften. “I got them, too, when I was at boarding school. Ten, I think.” 

“This wasn’t a flu, though. It was a dare. Tommy Griggins, I think. He’d found an old sandwich squashed at the bottom of his backpack—”

“Clark, did you eat the sandwich?”

“Well, you’re the world’s greatest detective, what do you think?”

Bruce snorted. “What was he offering to the kid that ate it?”

“Now that is the truly embarrassing part. Five dollars.”

“Five dollars? You gave yourself food poisoning for _five dollars_?” 

“OK, hear me out. I _needed_ those five dollars. I had saved up my allowance and chore money for weeks to buy a Revell 1:48 B-29 Superfortress—”

“A model plane?”

“And there was only one left at the hobby shop in town! I knew someone else was going to buy it if I didn’t! It was a desperate time.” Clark nodded mock gravely. “Eating the sandwich didn’t seem that bad. It wasn’t moldy or anything. Just smooshed and—”

“Ugh, stop. I get the picture. Processed lunch meat and American cheese on Wonderbread, right?”

“Actually, it was peanut butter and jelly.” Clark paused. “On Wonderbread. I didn’t think it’d be that bad. But I had to eat the whole thing. One bite in, and I knew I’d made a mistake.”

“You didn’t stop, did you?”

“With Tommy and Lana and everyone else watching? Not on your life! I ate the whole thing. Pretended to like it even. I got my five dollars.”

“How long until you threw up?”

“I only made it to the start of class.” Clark grimaced. “I convinced myself that the nausea would pass…until I sat down, and _blarg_! I puked right on my desk.” 

Bruce couldn’t help himself. He chuckled. It was an alien sound, and he would’ve thought it had come from outside of himself if it hadn’t been for the resulting pain in his chest. 

“Was it worth it?” Bruce teased.

“Absolutely. Pa felt so bad that I’d gotten sick at school that he went to the model shop and bought the plane for me. I got to miss school for two days and make the model plane in bed.”

“You didn’t tell them how you got sick, did you?”

“Not on your life.”

“Mastermind.” Bruce yawned, his eyelids drifting shut. This time when he closed his eyes, all he saw was little, gap-toothed Clark in his farmhouse bed, happily making his prized model plane. 

Before he drifted off, he mumbled, “Don’t leave, ‘K?” He wasn’t sure if he meant for the night…or forever. 

Clark planted a gentle kiss on the side of his cheek, whispered, “I won’t. I’ll watch over you, dear.” 

With his brain anchored on Clark’s memory, he was able to relax enough to slide into the darkness of sleep.

**************

Bruce slept longer than he had in years. His dreams were almost tangible at this depth, pulling from the well of memories, fears, and hopes within him. His mother was there sometimes, as well as his father, but not always as victims. He laughed with them, touched them, fought with them. Sometimes they were really someone else—The Joker, Lucius Fox, Jonathan Kent. He fought thugs attacking the Kents’ farm, he dined on caviar with supermodels in the Penguin’s lair. He made love to Clark on a nest of Poison Ivy’s writhing plants, then opened his eyes to find Selina Kyle smiling down at him. He stood upon a stage at a press conference and ripped off his face, only to realize he held a rubber mask of Bruce, and the paps were snapping pictures of him as Batman.

Every time he rose from the depth of his dreams, he felt Clark surrounding him, sure and steady as a fortress. At one point he felt a sharp prick on his right hand, but he dismissed it as he slid back into darkness.

At one point he drifted up enough that he felt a low vibration in Clark’s chest, then heard Alfred’s quiet voice over the clink of china against silver.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything else, Mr. Kent?”

“No thank you, Alfred. You’ve already done more than enough. How’s the jaw?”

“Nothing but a love tap. The chap who gave it fared much worse.”

“You weren’t supposed to actually fight. Just…appear. Scare them.”

“Well, tell that to him. He’s been dispatched to the authorities, so you can probably find him in the precinct jail.”

“Careful, Gotham, there’s a new Batman in town.”

“Bah, don’t even joke about that. One night of this nonsense is enough for me. Unless something dire comes over the scanner, I think I’ll leave tonight’s patrol to the police.”

They were talking nonsense. It all had to be part of another dream. Bruce let his mind drift again, and he slipped into another spiral of strange visions.

It was the smell of cinnamon that pulled him back to shore, sweet and spicy and warm. Mingled with the scent of Clark’s musk, it was intoxicating. Bruce tried to open his eyes, and it took him several tries through the crust sealing the lids shut. He tried to lift his hand to wipe them away, then realized it was bound to his chest in a sling. The ache in his shoulder made him grunt, and he swiped at his eyes with the back of his left hand.

“Hey there,” Clark said, a gentle cheer in his voice. “Welcome back.”

“How long was I out?” Bruce asked. His mouth felt like cotton, and his words were practically a croak.

“Almost three days.”

“Three days?!” Bruce was aghast. Never, in his adult life, had he taken three consecutive days off of anything. Panic welled in his chest, and he tried to sit up, moving Clark’s arm from around his waist—

He stopped, looking down at Clark’s arm. He was wearing the exact same flannel shirt he’d been wearing when Bruce had fallen asleep. He forced himself to turn, wincing at the pain in his ribs. It wasn’t as sharp as before.

Clark’s cheeks and chin were covered in thick, black stubble, his hair as rumpled as his clothes. On the bedside table beside him were notebooks, his laptop computer, and, of all things, a sunlamp. Realization hit, bright and sweet as the dawn.

“You held me the whole time, didn’t you?” Bruce asked. “You haven’t moved in three days?”

“I promised you that I’d watch over you.” Clark shrugged, but he met Bruce’s gaze unflinchingly. “It seemed the best way to keep you immobilized so your injuries would heal. It’s not like I need sleep or food myself. Just a little sunlight—” he patted the lamp beside him, “—and some work to keep me occupied.”

Bruce’s heart lurched, squeezing so tight that he could barely breathe. Clark, Kal-El, had stayed. Not just within the proximity, but he had literally _held_ Bruce the entire time he’d been asleep. Out of all the secrets they shared, the fights they’d faced together, the games they indulged in, this was the greatest act of trust that Clark had given him.

“Thank you,” Bruce whispered. He found Clark’s hand and squeezed it, wonder mingling with joy. He looked down at their joined hands, and it was then he noticed the canula taped over the vein. He followed the path of the tube attached to it, to the IV that hung by the bed.

“Was I really that bad off?” Bruce asked.

“You were in pretty bad shape. This seemed the easiest way to keep you hydrated and get you your pain killers and antibiotics without waking you. Your body needed to heal.”

“Not just my body.” Bruce sighed. He went to lean back into Clark again, and stopped. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re dying to get up.”

Clark scoffed, and pulled Bruce gently back down against him. “Are you kidding me? This has been the best three-day vacation I’ve ever had.”

“I didn’t know you got off on being human furniture, Clark.”

Bruce felt the vibration of Clark’s chuckle radiate through his chest. “You actually let me take care of you, without fighting, snide comments, or me needing to assuage your ego. You just slept. Every time you had a bad dream, I was able to wake you enough so you’d reset it. When you got uncomfortable, I moved the pillows around. When you drooled, I wiped your chin—”

“Wait, I drooled?”

Clark cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to tell you what I had to do when you had to pee.”

Bruce’s cheeks warmed, but surprisingly, he didn’t feel the same burn of humiliation he did before. Kal had embraced Bruce, in all his human frailty, had nursed him back to health. Only his own parents and Alfred had ever—

Alfred.

“Was I dreaming when I overheard you two talking about Alfred going on patrol as Batman?”

Clark’s breath faltered. “It was…not the best choice, but we didn’t want Batman to be M.I.A. for so long. It was his idea.”

“I am going to have to have a serious talk with him. That was foolish of him. He could’ve gotten seriously hurt!”

“He did fine,” Clark soothed. “He kept his distance, mostly. Just enough so that Batman’s presence was seen around Gotham. He even managed to stop a mugging, too.”

“What about Superman?” Bruce asked slowly, guilt gnawing at his stomach. “How did the world fare without the Man of Steel to save the day?”

“The same way it did before I arrived. It kept turning.” Clark rubbed his thumb across the side of Bruce’s hand. “Clark Kent, though, managed to catch up on some work. He even got a couple of exclusives in.”

“Oh?”

“Mmmhmm. ‘Bruce Wayne’s Yacht Caught in Tropical Storm.’ You’re currently recovering from your minor injuries in a private hospital in Miami. You’re also making a $5 million dollar donation for hurricane relief.”

“Hm. Not bad.” Bruce smiled. “I would’ve just had me off on some pleasure cruise with a couple of French models. You always know how to make me sound good.”

“And keep you away from imaginary French models. You know how jealous I get.”

“You know you’re the one I come home to. Always will, Kal.”

Bruce heard Clark’s breath catch. Bruce wished he was brave enough to see Clark’s expression, bask in the luminous joy he could feel radiating off of him. It was still easier, though, to talk without seeing his face. One step at a time.

“I’ve been…scared,” Bruce continued. “Scared that once you realized just how…frail this mortal shell of mine is, you’d decide it was too much to bear. Like loving a pet you know is going to die well before you.”

“Bruce, you’re not my dog.”

“Please, let me finish.” Bruce gathered his courage. “I know I’m human. I know you first loved the…the myth I wove around myself. You came to love the man underneath, but that man will age. He will break. He will die…and you will go on. I was sure if you ever saw just how easily I could be damaged, you’d decide that…it wouldn’t be worth it.” Bruce trailed off. He swallowed hard. “I think, now, I realize that you’re fully willing to take that risk…and, and I am, too. I trust you, Kal-El, Last Son of Krypton. Not just with my heart, but with my mortal time on this Earth. I’m yours.”

Clark didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He pressed a kiss to the back of Bruce’s head, wrapping his arms gently around his bruised chest.

“All I’ve ever wanted is for you to let me love you the way you deserve,” Clark said.

“Does that include giving me a sip of that cinnamon tea in your mug?” Bruce asked. “I could use it to clear this sleep-taste out of my mouth.”

Clark brought the mug over, and the spicy-sweet smell flooded over Bruce. It was Alfred’s secret recipe…and Bruce’s mother’s favorite. The memory didn’t sting this time. It just wrapped around him like a warm blanket, the steam kissing his cheek gently before drifting away.

For the first time since he was a child, Bruce finally felt safe. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, my friends, it has been over two and a half years since the last installment of this ongoing series. I'd been picking at this piece on and off even before then, but couldn't quite get the right feel for it. Then, 2020 happened. Suddenly, the idea of writing about Bruce driven to his breaking point seemed a lot more feasible. 
> 
> It's been a punishing year, and I think all of us could use a little care to get us through to the end of it. Writing fic is the best form of therapy for me I've ever found, and life circumstances have shifted again to make dedicated writing time much more possible. Thank you, readers, who have waited ever so patiently for this, and have been understanding about the long hiatus. Thank you also to any new readers! I hope you enjoyed!


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